Infamous

by Jane Porter

  And it was past time to escape.

  Luc’s body shouted at him to turn around, return to the dressing room and finish what he’d started.

  He was hard, ready. His blood was pumping and it had nearly killed him to take his hands off of her soft skin.

  Her taste was addictive. Sweet, with an underlying kick.

  He paused in the long corridor outside her door. He wanted to bury himself in her—in his wife—and make them both delirious with need and release. Again and again until they were exhausted from it. It was a complication he hadn’t foreseen—and he had been so sure he’d covered all the angles.

  Tonight he could allow himself some amusement on that score. It was not very often that Luc Garnier was taken by surprise. He had expected to desire her—she was a beautiful woman and he had long had a taste for classic beauty. Who did not? But the need raking through him and tempting him to charge back through the door and claim what was his—that was unexpected.

  Perhaps it was not a complication. Perhaps it was merely a side benefit—confirmation that he’d made the correct choice. The fact that he knew very few men in his position who lusted after their wives meant nothing. When had Luc been at all like other men?

  He forced himself to walk away from her door, to leave her in peace. For tonight, at least.

  They had their whole lives to explore this combustible chemistry. He could allow her one night to come to terms with it.

  His mouth curved at the idea of behaving benevolently—for any reason. It was a new sensation, and not entirely pleasant. He was not a man who denied his appetites.

  But it was only for tonight.

  In the morning he would continue her education. He would touch her until she welcomed it, until she begged him for more.

  And then all bets were off.

  It had been so easy, Gabrielle marveled almost a week later, looking out over the endless sea of lights below her. Los Angeles gleamed and beckoned, sprawled out before her, seeming seductive and immense from Gabrielle’s spot high in the Hollywood Hills.

  Gabrielle couldn’t believe how easy it had been—it made her wonder why she had waited so long to do something simply because she wanted to do it, without worrying about the feelings or opinions or wishes of anyone else.

  Gabrielle had left the palazzo after a quick change of clothes, driven down to the docks, boarded a ferry—and been in Italy by morning. Once she’d made her way to Rome she had booked herself into a hotel for the night and called an old friend from university. Cassandra had not missed a beat, despite the fact she and Gabrielle had not seen each other in ages. She had apologized for the fact that she could not be in California to greet Gabrielle because she was filming in Vancouver, but she had offered Gabrielle the use of her house. Gabrielle had boarded a flight the next morning, had a brief stopover in London, and had been in Los Angeles by early afternoon.

  Not bad for an obedient princess who had never lifted a finger in protest her whole adult life.

  Tonight Gabrielle stood out on Cassandra’s deck and sipped at a glass of white wine. Hollywood was splayed out before her, sparkling into the warm night, the lights and sounds wafting up from the famous Sunset Strip far below. She loved California—what little she’d seen of it in her jet-lagged and emotional haze. She loved the eucalyptus and rosemary-scented hills, with columns of cyprus trees scattered here and there. She loved the coyote howls at night and the warm sun during the day. She loved the red-topped houses that reminded her of home, and the hints of the Mediterranean throughout the landscape—houses clinging to the hilltops in clusters and the sea far below.

  Gabrielle felt rebellious: American. She had helped herself to her friend’s closet, as Cassandra had urged her to do. She wore denim jeans and a silk blouse tonight, and had left her feet bare. She curled her toes into the sun-bleached wood beneath her and reveled in the freedom of even so small an action. Her hair swirled around her shoulders in the warm night air. The outfit was light years away from the way she dressed normally—the pathologically proper Princess wore Chanel suits in soothing pastels and kept her hair in a smooth French twist.

  And Gabrielle never wore jeans. Never. Her father believed jeans were “common,” and out of deference to him Gabrielle hadn’t worn a pair since her days at university. Tonight she decided she loved them. She liked the feel of the denim against her skin, defining every inch of her thighs and smoothing down her calves to tease her toes. They felt decadent and disobedient—two things Gabrielle wanted very much to be herself.

  How had she let this happen? she wondered again, as despair moved through her body like a wave. How had she allowed her life to get so far from her own control? How had she handed it to someone else with so little thought? She balked at the idea that she would go so far to please someone—but facts were facts. She had handed over her life. First to her father, and then to her brand-new, terrifying stranger of a husband.

  Behind her, the doorbell echoed through the pretty California Craftsman house, built like an expanded bungalow. Gabrielle smiled. That would be the housekeeper—the efficient and helpful Uma, who had promised to return with groceries for Gabrielle so she need not venture out into the hair-raising traffic on the Los Angeles streets.

  Gabrielle padded to the front door, her bare feet making the faintest whisper of sound against the dark wood floor.

  “You’re a lifesaver—” she began, throwing the door open.

  But it was not Uma who stood there.

  It was Luc.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  LUC. Her husband. On the doorstep in front of her.

  A kind of fire exploded through Gabrielle’s body, heating her skin and raising the fine hairs on the back of her neck. Her mouth went dry.

  If she could have moved she would have run for it, bare feet and all—she would have scrabbled up the hillside and run until she collapsed. Anything to put space between them.

  But she was paralyzed by the fury in his dark gaze, the rigid set of his muscular shoulders, the power emanating from his strong frame. He was no less imposing in a cotton sweater and dark trousers than he had been in a morning suit on their wedding day.

  In fact, the ferocious masculinity he trumpeted from every pore was even more intense than she remembered—with the California night behind him, and that hot banked rage she could practically taste simmering in his nearly black gaze.

  She had been wary of him a week ago. But she could see—instantly—that the Luc Garnier she had met on her wedding day had been tame and sweet next to the one who now stood, incensed, on the doorstep before her.

  You should have kept running, a little voice inside her insisted. You should never have stopped.

  “Hello, Gabrielle.” His voice was rich, dark and mocking.

  Gabrielle flinched. “I think you forgot something in your haste to get away,” he continued, looming over her on the front step.

  His shoulders blocked out everything else—or perhaps it only seemed that way through the tears of reaction she fought to hold back.

  “I—forgot something …?” she stammered.

  His mouth twisted. “Your husband.”

  And then Luc walked inside, ignoring the wineglass that fell from her bloodless fingers, stepping over the shattered glass and the pool of liquid that spread across the floor—and never once taking his eyes off of her.

  How dared she stare at him like that? When she had humiliated him on their wedding day—and run off across the planet! After all the leeway he had granted her—a mistake he would never make again.

  How could he have been so wrong? How could he have mistaken her character like this? If one of his subordinates had been responsible for an error of this magnitude Luc would have fired and destroyed him. Had he only believed what he’d wanted to believe? Had he succumbed to the lie of her charms like any other, lesser man?

  Luc bit back the bellow of rage and betrayal that threatened to spill out. He would remain in control. He would not sink to her level. Tho
ugh it cost him, and he felt himself snarl with the effort of controlling his temper.

  His eyes raked over her—his recalcitrant princess. Not perfect at all, but a lie. A lie who was now his wife.

  Tonight she did not look like the obedient, biddable Princess Gabrielle he had chosen so carefully. It was as if that woman did not exist. That woman had never existed! Her thick tresses flowed around her, free and wild and the color of honey. She smelled sweet and fresh, like the scent of jasmine outside, rising up from the hills. And she pulled away from him as he stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him—closing them inside.

  Her feet were bare. Tight blue jeans showcased the curve of her hips and the long, slender length of her legs. Luc imagined those legs wrapped around his neck and felt himself harden immediately. He wanted her.

  He hated that he wanted her. When she had played him for a fool. When she had managed to deceive him—he who prided himself on his immunity to such deceptions. He should never have believed the lie of her wide eyes, her trembling lips. Her supposed charity. Her proclaimed innocence. Moreover, he should have claimed what was his immediately, and to hell with her feelings.

  So much for his urge to protect her. He would never indulge it again.

  “What are you doing here?” Gabrielle asked into the tense silence, her eyes huge, as if she could read his mind.

  She backed away as he approached, keeping a good two strides between them. She danced backward into the living room, and then moved to the back of the nearest sofa—as if a piece of furniture would provide a barrier. As if she would need some kind of barrier.

  Luc might have found her amusing in other circumstances. But not much had amused him since he’d realized that she’d not only abandoned him, but had done so at a moment calculated to cause the most gossip, the most speculation. He thought he might hate her for that. He stopped in the center of the room and crossed his arms over his chest, to keep himself from doing anything he might regret.

  “What am I doing here?” He smiled without humor. “I couldn’t allow my bride to spend our honeymoon alone, could I?”

  “Honeymoon?” She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

  “What did you think I would tell them, Gabrielle?” Luc asked softly. “Did you consider it at all? What exactly did you think of as you abandoned me in the middle of our wedding reception, surrounded by our guests?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, almost helplessly.

  She clasped her hands in front of her. Perhaps she did not know that the movement pushed her breasts forward, drawing his attention to them and creating an intriguing shadow beneath her blouse. But he suspected she did. He suspected that everything about her was calculated.

  And he’d fallen for it. Hook, line and sinker. He who had never lost control with a woman in his life, who had gone to such lengths to prevent exactly this scenario, had been well and truly played. He took a step closer.

  “Sorry?” he repeated. He kept his tone mild. “That’s all you have to say?”

  “I … I had to leave,” she said, that musical voice low. Pleading. “I can’t do this—don’t you see?”

  He did not see. He felt. A churning mess of sex, fury, bitterness and possession that flared whenever he thought of her and was like wildfire now that she was in the same room. Even though he hated what she was—what she’d done to him. Because of it, perhaps.

  “Why don’t you tell me?” he said, moving toward the fireplace. He leaned casually against the mantel, though he did not feel in the least bit casual tonight. “I see my wife. The woman I married in a cathedral packed full of most of Europe. Tell me what you see that I do not.”

  “You’re a stranger!” Frustration made her voice shake. Color was high on her cheeks, accentuating her classic bone structure and the perfection of her full mouth. “You … I met you at the altar!”

  “So?” He straightened from the mantel. “This is your objection? This caused you to race across the world to get away from me?”

  “Are you insane?” She let out a short laugh. “We don’t live in the Middle Ages. Normal people get to know each other before they get married.”

  “But you and I are not normal people,” Luc said, with an edge in his voice, closing the distance between them. Hadn’t they already discussed this? Was she truly so naïve? He somehow doubted it after the past week. He watched as she fought against her urge to run from him as he rounded the couch. It was written across her face. Yet she stood firm. “You are the Crown Princess of Miravakia.”

  She held her hands out, warding him off.

  “This is my fault,” she said desperately.

  “Then we agree,” he bit out.

  “I should have objected sooner,” she continued, wary. “I’ve spent the days since the wedding asking myself how I could have let things get so far. My only excuse is I … I am not used to denying my father’s wishes.”

  “Yes,” Luc said bitterly. “The obedient, demure Princess Gabrielle, of whom I have heard so much. It was first assumed that you were kidnapped, you understand. Because no one could imagine the biddable, dependable Princess disappearing in such a public, humiliating way deliberately.”

  She flinched. “I am so sorry.” Her eyes searched his. “You must believe me! I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “You are my wife, Gabrielle.” His voice was cold. Bitter. “That means something to me even if it does not mean anything to you.”

  Her color deepened. “I can’t tell you—”

  “And let me make something clear.” He reached over and took her upper arms in his hands, forcing her to stand still, to look up at him.

  Her skin was like satin. He wanted to strip her clothes from her body and explore it. He wanted to punish her. Or both at the same time. He should have done it from the start.

  He should have taken her in that dressing room of hers, with her wedding dress still on. He should never have played at the courteous gentleman—a role he knew nothing about and never would.

  “Please—” she started.

  “I do not believe in bloodless faked marriages of convenience,” he told her with finality. “It will not happen with us.”

  “What? What do you mean?” She blinked. “There must be—”

  “I mean exactly what I said.” He drew her closer, so that her panicked breath caused her firm breasts to brush against his chest. “You made vows. I expect you to honor those vows in word and deed. Do I make myself clear?”

  “But—but—” Gabrielle shook her head, trying to clear it. But Luc was so close—his hands burning into her flesh. She couldn’t seem to catch a breath. “You can’t be serious! We don’t even know each other!”

  “I think I’ve gotten to know you well enough over the past week,” he said, his voice almost tender, at odds with the darkness in his eyes, the hard set of his jaw. “As I chased you across the planet, the scorned and humiliated husband you abandoned so cavalierly. What more do I need to know?”

  “No!” She was trembling, her eyes glazed with frustration or fear, but he no longer believed her. Or cared. “I didn’t—I never—”

  “Tell me, Gabrielle—when did you decide to deceive me? Or was this your plan all along?” His voice was harsh. So close, his hard features seemed made of stone.

  “Of course not!” she cried. “Why can’t you understand? I made a mistake!”

  “Yes,” he hissed. “You did.”

  Something sparked then, in the dark depths of his gaze—something hot and wild, bitter and lethal.

  She knew what he was going to do in the split second before he did it—and she thought she screamed. She thought she cast him away from her with the force of that scream. But she didn’t make a sound. She didn’t move at all.

  His merciless mouth came down on hers and she was lost.

  Luc’s mouth was hard—and inexpressibly delicious. Gabrielle’s head fell back as her mind spun out, leaving her dizzy and weak. He held her jaw in his strong hand—g
uiding her lips with his.

  He did not seduce, caress. He took. He demanded. He possessed.

  And Gabrielle’s body burst into flame after flame of sensation. It was as if her body spoke to his in its own ancient language, and Gabrielle could neither control it nor understand it. She felt hot, and then cold. Luc deepened the kiss, playing with her tongue, her lips. Her hands crept up to the warm soft cotton of his sweater, then pressed against the planes of his chest. He made a slight sound of encouragement, or passion, as his powerful arm wrapped around her hips and dragged her up against the length of his body.

  She could feel him from head to toe, pressed hard against her, imprinting himself, his taste, into her senses.

  She was insane with the feel of him—the glory and the terror.

  “Kiss me back, damn you,” he growled, breaking away for only a moment.

  Gabrielle stared at him, dazed. And then once again his mouth took hers, slanting to get a better, sweeter fit, and Gabrielle ached. Her breasts ached as she pressed against the implacable strength of his chest. Her belly ached, and she pulsed with heat between her legs.

  Gabrielle felt the glass of the sliding door behind her, the coolness sharp against her overheated skin. She hadn’t noticed that Luc had backed her into the door until he pressed her back against the glass. He moved his fingers into her hair, fisting his hand in the silky mass.

  Once again he pulled his mouth away from hers. His face seemed harsh, dangerous. Gabrielle shivered. His dark eyes bored into her, and she had the irrational thought that he could see what his kisses had done to her—could see the almost painful throbbing low in her belly, in the molten core of her.

  She opened her mouth to speak—perhaps to beg him to take her, to ease her agony, to let her go. She would never know.

  The doorbell rang again, echoing through the house.

  Luc glared. “Are you expecting someone? Is that why you ran to California—to meet your lover?”

  “My …” Gabrielle shook her head, reeling. She couldn’t make sense of his words, or the suspicion that glittered in his dark eyes. “It’s the housekeeper,” she said, her voice no more than a whisper, and huskier than it should have been. She looked down and saw that her hands had curled into fists. “She’s come to bring groceries.”